He was just Liam. The version I only got in my dorm room after midnight or in the boat when nobody was close enough to hear.
Except now he was that version in daylight. On a sidewalk. In the open air. And seeing it—seeing him free—made something ache in my chest.
This is what it could be like.
"Come on," I said. "I saw a café."
The café was called Maple & Main. The kind of place with mismatched furniture and a chalkboard menu and a bell that jingled when you walked in. It smelled like fresh bread and coffee and something with cinnamon.
We ordered at the counter. Turkey and avocado on sourdough for me. Roast beef and cheddar for Liam. Two coffees—mine black, his with enough sugar to make the barista raise an eyebrow.
"Four sugars?" I said.
"Six."
"That's not coffee. That's dessert."
He smirked.
We sat at a corner table by the window. The main street visible through the glass—the storefronts, the church, a couple of kidsriding bikes. A Sunday in a town where nothing dramatic had ever happened.
The sandwiches came. We ate. And for a few minutes it was just that—two people having lunch, knees almost touching under the table, the easy silence of not needing to fill every second with words. I kept catching myself staring at him—the way he ate with his whole body, leaning into it, no pretense. The way he wiped mustard off his chin with the back of his hand instead of a napkin. The way he looked up and caught me watching and said "What?" with his mouth full.
"Nothing," I said.
"You're staring."
"I'm not."
"You are. You've got this whole face happening."
"I don't have a face."
"You've got a very specific face right now." He leaned in. "It's the same face you make when you're about to—"
"Fuck off. Eat your sandwich." I laughed.
He grinned. Kept eating.
Then he set his sandwich down and wiped his hands.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"Braden. What's his deal? Like, actually."
I took a sip of coffee. Thought about how to explain something that had been shaping my life since before I could name it.
"It started with our fathers," I said.
"They rowed together?"
"Not exactly. My father was a freshman at Kingswell. Braden's father was a junior. They were competing for the same seat in the Henley quad."
"Henley? As freshmen?"
"Lockwood was already established. But my father was good enough to challenge him." I turned my coffee cup on the table."He became obsessed with beating Lockwood. He over-trained. Pushed too hard. Injured his back three weeks before selection."
